


After

by turtles_to_the_max



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Oneshot, So many OCs, angst angst and more angst, if you take liberties, technically canon compliant i guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtles_to_the_max/pseuds/turtles_to_the_max
Summary: Ralph wants his father back (too late), two boys want their brother Simon back (nobody tell them), a random sergeant doesn't want to tell some sweetshop lady that her nephew is dead (especially because he can't even recall the boy's real name), and Jack is... just not coping very well with his time on the island.A collection of one-shots focused on each of the major boys, from two weeks to ten years after the island.
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

_Then_

The man stood shivering on the pier, his eyes fixed resolutely on an expanding black dot on the horizon. A gust of October wind swept through the harbor, snapping the sailboats’ wings to attention and sending up a distinct smell of fish. The woman clutching his arm shuddered.

“Is that -” Her grip on his arm tightened. “Is that him?” She pointed a trembling finger towards the dot, its contours forming into those of a large ship.

The man nodded once, still not looking at his sister. The dot was growing ever closer now, and his fist clenched involuntarily around the two crumpled news articles it held. One trumpeted _16 ENGLISH BOYS RESCUED_ in large triumphant letters, a date and address scribbled at the bottom. The other paper he did not want to think about, and it was this article that made his fingers clench into its soft paper, as if by gripping the sheet tightly enough he could trap the horrible meaning behind the ink faded into its surface.

The sky swirled ominously and the steely waves slapped against the concrete pier as the dot on the horizon grew into a smudge that became the full trappings of a British army cutter. Hours seemed to pass as the ship steadily grew closer, finally docking in the harbor with a sort of dignified groan. After an eternity of waiting, the doors opened and a ramp descended.

Silence at first, then a boy appeared in the entrance, his eyes lowered. Another boy followed, then another and soon the pier was swarming silently, all boys with shorn hair and wearing oversized uniforms that bagged at the shoulder and knee. The oldest of them looked to be around twelve, glancing around awkwardly and avoiding each others’ eyes; the youngest could be no older than six, and many were sniffling away tears as they gazed up at the host of adults watching them.

“There,” the woman hissed. “John. There he is.” He followed his sister’s finger towards a tall fair-haired boy, his skin deeply tanned, turned away from the others and staring out to sea. Some of the other boys had already found their parents and were huddled weeping in their arms, and some bustled with a strained cheeriness towards the carriages waiting for them. The fair-haired boy only stood and stared.

“Is -” John cleared his throat, avoiding his sister’s eyes. “Is Paul coming?”

She flushed at the mention of her second husband’s name. “No. He said it would be better if Ralph only saw his mother first. Get used to it, with - with everything…” She trailed off as both adults looked away awkwardly, and her brother gripped the papers even more tightly, rubbing them together.

The boy turned, his eyes scanning the crowd of grown-ups, and his stare grew more desperate with every passing moment. John knew who he was looking for, and a knot of dread tightened deep in his stomach as he finally stepped forwards. “Ralph.”

The boy jumped, his face lighting up. “Uncle!” Up close, John could see the marks of sun and salt on his face, and his eyes were sunken in their drawn sockets. His clipped hair was bleached almost white. “And… Mother.”

His mother laughed nervously, knuckles pinched and white over her handbag. Ralph watched her with clenched fists. He looked from his uncle to his mother and then to her right, expecting a third adult standing there for him and finding none.

Finally he looked up at John, brow furrowed. “But… where’s Father?”

His mother flushed and turned away, digging in her handbag. John squeezed the papers in his fist and stepped forwards, clearing his throat once more.

“Uncle,” Ralph repeated, looking up at John now, “where’s Father?”

With trembling hands John lifted the second article, still refusing to look at it. “Ralph…”

“Surely he could have gotten leave,” Ralph added, frowning. “They sent the telegram out two weeks ago, that we’re rescued. They said - they told me -”

“Ralph,” his mother whispered. 

“But he is here - isn’t he?” Ralph stuck his fists on his hips. “Uncle?”

John looked away.

“...Uncle?” There was a note of panic in the boy’s voice. 

“I’m sorry, lad,” John croaked. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Ralph looked past him in desperation. “Father?”

John knelt, putting a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Ralph, please… you must understand, there is a war going on, and sometimes -”

“No.” Ralph’s eyes were squeezed shut. “No - no - you don’t understand -”

John brought the paper forwards. “I’m sorry, Ralph.”

“FATHER!” Ralph ripped away from his uncle, snatching the paper as he did.

He opened his eyes just a crack to read the headline: _3 British Ships Sunk By Enemy Torpedoes In Surprise Attack - No Survivors -_ and closed them again, his face slowly crumpling. 

John was quiet, watching his nephew turn away and watch the waves, his shoulders trembling.

“It’s a mistake,” Ralph said eventually, shaking his head. “It’s a mistake - they counted wrong. They - they don’t understand.” He looked around at his uncle for confirmation, eyes pleading. “It was a mistake.” His voice cracked. “Right?”

John slowly shook his head, his hands still squeezing Ralph’s shoulders. “He fought bravely, lad.”

“No - no -” Ralph looked around like a trapped animal, grabbing the paper from his uncle. “NO!”

The yell seemed to rip the harbor in half, and several parents looked around sharply, covering their children’s ears. John held his nephew as his screams went on, every ragged inhale contracting his chest and releasing over the waves, stroked Ralph’s back, waited - his mother seemed to have disappeared - until his voice became raw and his cries died down, turning into a quiet snuffling as they looked out over the waves together. 

Once the boy had been quiet for a while, John reached out, squeezing his hand. Ralph turned away.

“Nothing... “ he whispered, staring over the water with dry eyes. “Nothing is ever going to be the same, is it?”

“I’m so sorry, lad,” his uncle replied heavily. “It won’t.”

“Never,” Ralph repeated. “It’ll never be the same.”

In silence they watched the endless gray sucking sea break against the edge of the pier.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Two weeks later _

“Mum.” The syllable was sharp and strained, with just an edge of happiness to it.

Andrew’s older brother was pacing small circles into the floor, staring at the morning paper and running his finger down a list of names. It was a cold Wednesday morning and Andrew, who was 13 and just beginning to discover a deep and all-abiding hatred for getting up early, stabbed at his porridge moodily, aggressively ignoring his brother. Nathaniel was 17, pale and earnest and getting ready for college, his sister Hanna was 8 and an adorable nuisance, and his younger brother - well, every time Andrew mentioned his brother, Nathaniel broke what he was holding and his mum burst into tears. 4 months ago it had been and still his name was a taboo word in their household. By now Andrew had learned it was better to pretend he simply didn’t exist.

He poked at the edge of his bowl mistrustfully, toyed with the idea of taking a bite, smelled the contents and decided against it. Nathaniel was still going on about something in the newspaper, his mother peering over his shoulder anxiously. Eventually Andrew deemed his porridge uninteresting enough, and the voices loud and excited enough, to look up, doing so with an air of immense reluctance.

“...and it’s really true, they said they’ve found them - a signal fire, they claim,” Nathaniel was saying, looking even paler than ever. “Flight D2-157, lost four months ago, 19 boys missing - everything fits. See, look.” He held out the newspaper to their mother, underlining a passage with his finger, and Andrew caught the headline:  _ MISSING ‘ISLAND BOYS’ FOUND, DELIVERED TO ENGLAND _ .

“They were what?” Andrew chewed a spoonful of his porridge, still only half-listening.

“Rescued,” Nathaniel said. “The plane that crashed four months ago. With -  _ him _ on it. We thought they were all dead, didn’t we? And now - they’ve found them.”

“Found…” Andrew looked up. “Found… him?” Both parties ignored him.

“Of course, dear,” their mother said, peering over her son’s shoulder. “You could be right. But then -”

“ - but then,” Nathaniel continued, still pacing, “ _ where is he? _ He was on that flight, he had just as much right as all the others to be brought back, and still no word.”

“And you’ve checked the list of names?” their mother countered. “Maybe we’ve missed something -”

Nathaniel shoved the paper down on the table. “I have! Look for yourself - it’s alphabetical. And he’s _ not on there _ . Missing!”

“Maybe,” his mother suggested doubtfully, “maybe it was a different flight? There is a war going on, they’ve been shipping boys out of the country by the bucketload, one or two are bound to go wrong -”

“Yes,” Nathaniel interrupted, “two flights, with the same name, each leaving four months ago, each carrying a group of choir boys from Eton, crashed under the exact same circumstances, except one of them was carrying our brother and one of them wasn’t and the one with our brother just happens to not have been found yet - of course, yes, that sounds perfectly reasonable, thank you.” He paused, breathing heavily. “ _ Where is he _ , dammit?”

Their mother shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear.” A swish of skirts and she was gone.

Nathaniel collapsed onto a chair next to Andrew, his shoulders slumping. “It - it just makes no sense.”

Andrew shrugged sympathetically, patting his brother’s shoulder in a way that was meant to be comforting and ended up just sort of floppy.

“I - I thought he was dead. We all did.” Nathaniel shoved the newspaper away. “And then that article. Rescued, they said. Everyone - except for him?”

“I dunno, he was kind of weird, anyways,” Andrew said with his mouth full; the look in his brother’s eyes made him back down again. “I didn’t mean that, Nathan.”

“I’ve checked that damn list over and over again,” he muttered. “They can’t just erase him from the story like that, spirit him off to God knows where without even telling us, what’s going on I don’t know -”

“Nathaniel,” Andrew said, “what does ‘presumably deceased’ mean?”

His brother’s head whipped around. “What?”

Andrew silently pointed to a sentence in the middle of the article he had been scanning.  _ Though 19 boys were registered for the flight to America, only 16 boys returned; accounts for the discrepancy vary and the 3 boys have been declared missing, presumably deceased. _

Nathaniel stared at the paper in shock, shaking his head slightly. 

“That’s not true,” he said.

Andrew looked at him quizzically. “But what does it mean?”

“It means nothing,” his brother snapped. “Because it’s not true. And if it is - well - how dare they -” His face darkened. “He had every right to be on that boat! Something dodgy happened on that island that they’ve no right to cover up, he - he was supposed to -” He stood up, his chair falling to the side with a clatter. “I’m leaving.”

“Nathan?”

“He was my brother!” Nathaniel yelled. “And they had no right to bury his story like that, pretend he didn’t even exist! He mattered, you understand?” He grabbed his jacket, pulling it on as he stalked towards the door. “You understand?”

“Nathan - I don’t -”

“Not you,” Nathaniel said more softly, turning back towards his brother with a pained smile. “I’m sorry, Andy, you - you look so much like him still -” He broke off suddenly, his eyes fixed on some far-off point.

There was a moment of silence as Andrew watched his brother stand, looking out at the window. Nathaniel seemed to be struggling with himself. Eventually he seemed to come to a decision; he took a deep breath, and his voice was hoarse as he spoke. 

“Simon’s dead, Andrew.”

Andrew blinked. “Dead?”

“Dead, or missing, or still trapped on that godforsaken island somewhere, it’s all the same. And they’re not even going to search for him, are they? I’m leaving. And they’re not getting rid of me, until I have the truth.” He paused. “That’s a promise.” The door opened and slammed shut again, and he was gone. 

His younger brother stared after him: a small boy with coarse dark hair, bright black eyes and a pointed chin. There was a second of silence and Andrew went back to his porridge. 

Still a pair of solemn dark eyes seemed to watch the space where Nathaniel had gone, waiting quietly from inside the cold room.


	3. Chapter 3

_Three weeks later_

“There,” Lieutenant Rover said, his breath fogging in the air. His companion glanced over at the map and nodded, looking around at the Lancashire street corner they were stopped at. On the opposite corner sat a small, brightly-lit shop with colourful lettering on the windows, its cheeriness a stark contrast to the darkening sky and hurried streams of adults moving past, coats gray and heads bowed. 

Rover fingered the documents in his pocket, lost in thought, only realizing that the light had changed when he looked up and saw Martin was gone, caught in the bustle of crowds in both directions. He lengthened his stride to catch up, arriving just in time to make the light, and crossed quickly. Martin was waiting for him in front of the shop; he nodded tersely and the two men stepped inside.

A bell rang as the door swung shut behind them, a smell of warmth and thick caramel greeting them. Behind the counter sat a stout lady of perhaps fifty years, gray-haired and with a motherly expression, who peered at the two men and fished a pair of specs out of her pocket. Straightening as she pushed them up her nose, the woman smiled uncertainly at the pair. “Welcome to Susanna’s Sweets, gentlemen. What can I do for you today?”

“Ma’am -” Martin began, then paused. His hand drifted to his back pocket, which Rover knew held the same letter that he himself was now running his finger over. The sergeant cleared his throat. “You are Susanna Peterkins, owner of this shop?”

She smiled. “That’s me.” 

“Good. Now, ma’am, if we could just speak with you for a second…”

The woman looked at them strangely, then nodded and gestured for them to wait. She scooted to the other side of the counter and talked briefly to the few children still mingling there, taking their last purchases and shooing them gently outside; after the last was gone she hung a small _CLOSED_ sign on the door. Rover noticed Martin fidgeting beside him and wished he would stop.

She turned back towards the two men, wiping her specs on the edge of her cardigan. “There’s a room out back.” Like two schoolchildren they followed her through the aisles, behind the counter, through a green door, down the hallway into a small room.

A few stuffed chairs, circling a table. A great desk near the end. Pictures on the walls, on the table, on the desk: a plump boy with specs and neatly pressed shirt, age ranging from a waddling toddler of three years to a boy of perhaps ten or eleven, often crouched next to the same beaming gray-haired woman whose dreary sweater the men were now following behind. Martin looked around at the many frames, shuffling his feet. “Your… your son?”

“My nephew,” she said, the lines near her eyes crinkling. “They sent him over to America on account of the war. About four months ago, it was. To study there. A clever boy, very clever, ever so polite and always so sensitive - ”

“Of course, ma’am, of course,” Rover interrupted, heading off what was promising to be a fifteen-minute song of praise. “He sounds - ” He glanced over at the pictures, the chubby boy with thick specs and a sickly grin, “charming.” 

Martin coughed and Rover’s lips twitched, but he quickly remembered why he was here and a wave of shame washed over him. “In fact, it’s over your nephew that we’re here today.”

She frowned. “Have the other boys been teasing him?”

She was so close to the truth, but so horribly off in the magnitude of it, that Rover could not meet her eyes and had to turn away. Martin noticed and stepped forwards, nudging Rover’s foot warningly. “Teasing?”

“On account of his ass-mar,” she explained. “He's a dear boy but very delicate, can’t even run or he’ll get an attack. And with his specs, and how _sensitive_ he is, I’m afraid he isn’t very popular with the other boys - won’t you sit down?” This to them; caught by surprise they muttered a hasty thanks and pulled up chairs. Susanna sank down opposite them with a sigh of relief.

“That’s better,” she murmured. “Now - you were saying?” 

“Yes.” Martin bowed his head ceremonially. “Mrs. Peterkins, I’m afraid we have some terrible news.”

Her bright eyes darkened and she watched them worriedly. “Is everything alright?”

The sergeant reached into his breast pocket for the papers there, unfolding them and keeping a firm eye contact with the tops of his boots. “You… you said your nephew was in America, ma’am?”

“That’s what they told me,” she said, faltering slightly. “He went there. On a plane. With the other boys, to study…”

Mutely Rover offered her a newspaper article, dated four months ago. Near the top was a picture of an airplane, its propeller on fire. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Neither of them dared to move as she took it, a cold weight settling in Rover’s chest.

She stared at the headline, confused, then froze as a look of horror stole across her face. 

“My nephew is…” She peered closer, resettling her spectacles on her nose. “On an island?”

As she read further Martin looked back at Rover, who had known the sergeant long enough to interpret the question in his eyes. _Do we tell her?_

Rover gave a tiny shrug. _I don’t think we have a choice._

They both watched her scan the paper, Rover’s eyes lingering on her tired face, on the one soft whimper that escaped her as she read, on the beaming pictures with such love in her eyes. He knew what they had to do - what they had come for in the first place - but a lump settled in his throat imagining the crinkled laugh lines around her eyes turning to wrinkles of sorrow, her plump frame collapsed into shuddering tears. The boy’s smiling eyes on the picture stared into his own, mocking him.

“And he - he’s stranded there?” She brushed a sweep of gray hair out of her eyes, clutching at the arm of her chair as if to save herself. “But he’ll be rescued?”

Martin glanced at Rover, flicking his eyes towards the shopkeeper and then down to the ground. _You tell her._

Rover nodded slightly and cast his eyes down in acknowledgement. _If I must._

“Ma’am,” he began hesitantly, “we’ve talked to all the other boys on the island, trying to find an account of what happened. It took us a while to find you - they didn’t keep track of names, apparently -” he glanced over at Martin for confirmation, who nodded “- and there’s still much we don’t know.”

Why was talking so hard? Why did his throat seem to seize up every time he opened his mouth? Rover had delivered many of these messages over the years, but somehow this one struck a deeper chord in him and he wished desperately to be anywhere else right now.

“But we do have certain facts,” he continued, averting his eyes from her inquisitive stare. “Your son -”

“- nephew,” Martin muttered, looking at Rover sternly.

“- your nephew. Piggy -”

“Who?” 

Rover could feel the burn of Martin’s glare on his neck as he flushed red. The plane carrying the boys had been struck down first, but two weeks later the building with the records of departures was bombed as well, nearly eighty percent of the files destroyed in the resulting fire. Inquiries had been made, but none of the boys from the island who were persuaded to talk could even remember the boy with specs’ name. 

From what they had managed to collect, the boy had been known only by that nickname on the island, a relic from his old boarding school. Rover had been puzzled over it, but looking at the boy’s pictures, the meaning behind it was painfully obvious now. They had intended to never refer to him by name, hoping she would yield something voluntarily. 

Martin interrupted, silently telegraphing _you idiot_ at his companion. “We do know some things. We’ve made inquiries, and… well, none of the stories quite line up, but it seems there was much loose rock at the top of the island.” He swallowed. “One of them was knocked loose, and your nephew, Piggy he was called I’m sorry ma’am the boys never knew his name and we lost the records -” he said this all very fast, looking down - “was hit. Struck by a stray boulder…”

 _Watch her face,_ Rover thought to himself. _That’s the last time you’ll ever see her smiling like that._

Martin’s fists were clenched in his lap. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Your nephew was killed on that island.”

And there it was, her smile fading, eyes widening. She sat quite still; only a slight trembling of the lip betrayed her. 

“Adam,” she whispered, looking down at her lap.

“Ma’am?”

“His name was Adam.” 

A single tear clung to the edge of her eyelashes, finally breaking and sliding down her cheek, across her chin.

She stood quickly, swiping below her glasses with her sleeve. “Thank you, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Our condolences,” Martin murmured.

She walked stiffly out of the room. There followed another long silence, then a sound of muffled sobbing drifted from around the corner.

Alone, the two watched each other awkwardly.

“Adam,” Martin said, almost to himself.

“Adam,” Rover confirmed.

“Do you think - was it actually a rockslide?”

“I don’t want to -” Rover muttered. “I don’t think I ever want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and yes, their last names are all deliberate


	4. Chapter 4

_Two years later_

Gertrude tucked a strand of graying hair behind her ear and sighed. Another year, another Christmas Eve, and for her that only meant running around an enormous kitchen all day when she wasn’t working desperately to appease her elderly father: a large man, famous in his day, with a legendary appetite and a legendary ego and temper to match. Merry as the holidays may have been for the others, she had seen him explode before and didn’t particularly want to again. And the best way to do that was twofold: a) don’t get on his bad side and b) on pain of death, make sure the dinner wasn’t burned. One of those at least would be easy to accomplish.

She knotted an apron tightly around her skinny frame and stepped into the steamy kitchen. “Hello, all.”

“Trudy,” her sister said with a smile and half an embrace: the other hand was balancing a heavy dish full of potatoes, which was wobbling ominously. She set it down with a loud clunk and turned around again. “How’ve you been?”

“Ah, same old, same old.” Gertrude rinsed her hands in the sink and dried them on her apron, rolling up her sleeves. “You?”

Clara shrugged. “Papa’s had another attack of gout and the children are running around screaming. David is in bed with a cold. I’d stay out of the way if I were you.”

“Wonderful,” Getrude muttered. She turning to an enormous pile of carrots in the sink and started attacking with scrubbing-brush and potato-peeler. 

They worked away the next half-hour in a companionable silence. Occasionally a stray child wandered into the kitchen and had to be shooed out, and there was an incident with the apple pie they collectively agreed to share the blame for and never speak of again, but it was only when the question of the meat came up that they ran into real trouble.

“Um.” Clara straightened up from the refrigerator, wiping her hands on her apron. “Trudy… we were going to have a turkey this year, yes?”

“I thought so,” Gertrude replied, holding up the baster and looking at her sister strangely. “Is anything the matter?”

Clara gestured towards the fridge. “This… is not a turkey.”

Gertrude turned around. “Not a turkey? What is it, duck? Goose? That’s annoying, but we can manage - David bought it, I suppose?”

“Er - neither,” Clara said in a slightly wobbly voice. “Maybe it was a bad idea to let David go to market with a temperature of 39, but I was really very busy at the time and in my defence he -”

Gertrude narrowed her eyes. “What’s in that refrigerator, Clara?” 

“Er…”

Gertrude marched over and peered inside. Sitting there proudly, tall and gleaming and accessible for admiration by all, was one giant pork roast.

“No.”

“Yep.” Clara grinned sheepishly.

“No. No. This is horrible. No. He did not. Clara -” Gertrude broke off, clutching the refrigerator door in horror. “This is the worst thing that could happen - and on Christmas Eve, of all times! Clara, we cannot -”

“It’s not so terrible,” Clara countered, sounding a little put out. “I mean, it’s not what we expected, but we still have time, don’t we? If I -”

“No. You don’t understand.” Gertrude closed the door forcefully and turned away, putting a hand on her eyes.

“I don’t, actually,” Clara said, pulling it open again. “Is roast pork so very bad?”

“You have no idea,” Gertrude murmured. “Lord preserve me.” Lacing her bony fingers together, she let her gaze drift up towards the ceiling. “Lord preserve us all...”

Many hours later, the table was at last set, candles lit and Gertrude in her second-best burgundy dress, the family gathered behind her. Around the table were clustered bowls of vegetables and potatoes, small plates of butter and margarine and cranberry sauce, baskets of rolls — and there in the very centre, the pork roast, glazed to perfection and gleaming smugly in the candlelight. Its surface was burnished a rich red brown, the smell wafting towards them was heavenly, yet Gertrude couldn’t suppress the clench of anxiety deep in her stomach at the sight of the thing.

“It looks lovely, Trudy,” David said, resting a hand on his sister-in-law's shoulder. “Well? Shall we?”

Gertrude nodded, discreetly making the sign of the cross on her chest when no one was looking. As the others descended to dinner, she felt a slight tug on her skirts. Two pairs of pleading eyes were turned up towards hers.

“Boys.” She shot her sons a quick glance. “I know it’s not ideal, but you must be polite and eat, no matter what. Your aunt and I have worked very hard at this, and Grandpapa would be very unhappy if he saw you trying to avoid any of it.”

A sniffle. “But Mum -”

“- we can’t -”

“It’s been two years since you’ve had any,” she said sternly. “And I think you two can be big boys this year and eat just a little bit. Who knows? Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”

“It’s horrible -”

“It’s a perfectly fine roast,” Gertrude snapped. “And it would be very rude of you not to eat. I will be expecting you to finish whatever Grandpapa puts on your plate, is that clear?” A pair of stony dark eyes met two pairs of blue ones, pleading, defiant. 

One pair lowered eventually. “Yes, mum.” The other murmured something bitter but finally lowered as well.

“Go on now,” Gertrude said, pushing them both lightly by the back. “The others are waiting.”

Gertrude’s father smiled as she sat down across from him next to her two fidgeting sons. “Trudy. How wonderful. Will you lead the prayer?”

Bowing her head and folding her hands, Gertrude gave her sons a sharp nudge with her knee. “Heavenly Father…”

About ten minutes later - Gertrude was a devout woman, and a firm believer in delayed gratification as well as religious piety - the people around the table unclasped their hands and started serving themselves. Gertrude passed the dishes around carefully, hoping to save the roast for the last thing that came to herself and her sons. Despite her efforts, the dish was still well over half-full when it arrived at her spot. Sam and Eric were squirming in their chairs, eyes turned away and whispering to each other.

“Boys?” She lifted a forkful towards them with a meaningful glance at their grandfather.

Eric’s voice was hushed. “But Mum, it’s _pork_ -”

Sam nodded. “Please, Mum, you can’t - “

“How lovely,” she said loudly, dishing out helpings to both of them and setting the plate down with more force than strictly necessary, turning away deliberately. “Cranberry sauce, Rebecca?”

The rest of the meal was passed in a tense silence between them as she watched the rest of the family talk and eat, always keeping one wary eye on the contents of her sons’ plates. The vegetables were disappearing quickly enough - under normal circumstances, a miracle - and the potatoes were long gone, but Sam and Eric’s servings of pork were still untouched, with a wide circle between it and the rest of the food. Occasionally one of them would poke at it warily, then wince and tremble and retreat again.

Dinner wound down and slowly Gertrude began to relax. True, the meat was being completely neglected and it was a waste of food, but some of the others still also had leftovers on their plates and no one was commenting on that, so maybe if they all just kept quiet a little longer -

“Ho, boys!” Gertrude’s father boomed. “Scared the meat’s been poisoned? Go on - have some already!”

Now every eye was on them. Gertrude almost swore under her breath, but caught herself in time; she could do penance later. Laughing as if it were all one grand joke, she fixed the boys with the harshest stare she could muster. 

“Go on,” she said quietly. Eric was already shaking, cringing away from the food, nearly weeping in despair. Gertrude nudged him sharply under the table and he looked down, ashamed. 

With the look of a man on the gallows, Sam reached a trembling fork forwards. Eric followed. Her father watched them closely, a frown already creasing the lines around his eyes, there was no escaping now. She could only look away and pray it would be over soon.

She turned back when she heard the sound of chewing. The horror grew in Sam’s eyes as he ate, an animal look she had not seen in a year and a half coming back into his face. Eric choked his first swallow down and gagged, true tears coming into his eyes.

“Mother,” Sam said through a mouthful of pork, his cheeks full, “may I - _please_ \- be excused?”

“Please,” Eric echoed, sniffling. Gertrude could feel the burn of fourteen separate judgemental looks in her direction. If she let them go now, she’d never hear the end of it.

“A little more, boys…” She looked around at her family with a strained smile. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them, normally they’d be on third helpings by now. We don’t very often eat pork, I suppose they’re unused to it… well? Eric? It’s not so bad, is it?”

Eric was curled into himself, twitching. Sam was stroking his back, looking around at the cousins watching them with a guarded expression. Neither of them had touched more than a bite.

“How old are they?” Gertrude’s aunt Rebecca asked, a slight smirk on her face. 

“Twelve and a half,” Gertrude muttered, turning red.

“Strange. They struck me as... younger.” Rebecca’s tone made it obvious what she was insinuating. Gertrude could have slapped her.

Sam stood abruptly and pulled Eric to his feet, and the two stumbled out of the room together. Her relatives watched them go in stony silence. Gertrude looked around with a sickly smile as if this was simply normal behaviour.

“Well, they did try it,” she said, pretending not to notice the eyes burning into her. “I’m afraid they’ve never been very good with pork since they… came back.” The entire table winced at the mention of the island; several coughed and looked away. Her father folded his arms and she tried not to recoil. The island and what had happened there was not mentionable among the rest of the family, a mark of _other_ , a symbol of shame. Since they had returned no one had even talked to her the same way.

She picked up a fork and started fidgeting with it, avoiding his eyes. “They’ll be back for dessert, I can assure you.” Gertrude laughed nervously. No one else did.

A stern silence, several heads turned to look at her father shaking his head slowly, then there was a general scraping of chairs and clinking of plates. The whole family rose together, turning their backs on Gertrude and the two empty places. Soon they had all dispersed into the kitchen, leaving her behind. Her father was the last to leave, his white brows narrowed, shooting a harsh look at Gertrude before retreating with the rest of them.

“But this isn’t my fault,” she whispered, half-risen from her chair. “None of this is my fault…”

After waiting thirty seconds for an answer, she stalked off away from them all, clutching at her rosary beads with cold fingers. Someone, whether it be God or her children, was going to need a very firm talking-to. 

Very, very soon.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Ten years later _

The barman at the King’s Head had always minded his own business, thank you very much, and he was determined that this evening should be no different. Of course there were the usual scuffles, staggering fools quickly escorted out by the security lurking in the corners, but those were easily dealt with and didn’t really count — in a pub tucked away on the grimier side of London, what could you expect? No, the one minor fistfight that had broken out and quickly been pushed apart again wasn’t what was worrying him tonight.

It was the cast of characters seated at his counter that was a little troublesome, and the reason he wiped down the glasses with a determined indifference even stronger than normal. A wrinkled lady, drinking endless mugs of ale and cackling to himself. A pale stranger with a sour face; he had ordered one brandy and not said a word the entire evening, and was now sitting and staring out at the gloomy tables with anger in his eyes. The usual redhead with his usual whiskey bottle, only this evening his head was buried in his arms and he was sobbing even louder than usual. And a group of dark-coated men: broad-brimmed hats, faces in shadow, their heads together and muttering to each other. They hadn’t ordered one drink between them yet and Josiah was on the verge of kicking them out.

But again. Nothing had to be his business that he didn’t make his business, and most people took one look at his muscles and decided that they didn’t really want to interfere with his business, anyways. It was a steady job and it paid reasonably well. The men would order a drink, or be prodded out within - Josiah set a mental timer - say, ten minutes. The others could be dealt with if they made trouble. Tonight didn’t have to be any different from any of the others in the five years he’d worked here.

He took a few more orders absentmindedly, pouring out drinks and taking the people’s money without paying proper attention. The stranger with the twisted face drained his brandy, slammed the glass down and stalked off to the other side of the pub. The redhead paused in his crying, ordered a second bottle of whiskey - again, unusual, and possibly illegal for Josiah to comply, but he technically didn’t seem too drunk yet and Josiah felt sorry for him - and slumped down again over the bottle, clutching it like a teddy bear. 

And with that - he cast a sour glance over them - the men’s time was up. Casually he slid over to their end of the counter and murmured a few words, slapping his hand on the surface for emphasis. They grumbled, faces still hidden in shadow, and one of them slid a coin or two onto the table. He shook his head, gesturing to the large group, fixing the one who seemed to be the leader with a hard stare. They muttered among themselves, then the leader stood up suddenly; with a loud scraping of stools the rest followed, and they stalked out of the bar without retrieving the coins.

Josiah glared after them, swiping up the few shillings they had left. At least security didn’t have to intervene, but it was a lot of space taken up, a dozen possible future customers influenced. And all for - he counted - the price of two and a half beers. He should be grateful nothing else happened, men like that were trouble, but as a general rule he was resentful towards all parties of larger than 3 or so at any time.

He kept thinking about it as he wiped down the counters, eyeing the customers for signs of trouble. It was only quarter to eleven and he desperately wanted to leave, to get away from the stink of brandy and the dirt that clung stubbornly to the walls and the blabbering fools that could break out in a fight at any time. Some nights the lights flickered comfortably and he greeted the regulars with a smile as he poured their drinks, the jokes getting progressively dirtier - and making less and less sense - as the evening went on. Tonight was not one of those nights and he watched everyone warily, his jaw set.

The door slammed open and 5 men staggered in, already roaring with laughter at nothing identifiable. Big rough types, about two shots away from passing out, one of them fell over and clutched at the door frame for support. A second tripped over the first’s legs, a third came tumbling after and the two still standing burst into hysterics while the others pushed themselves up with sickly grins. At the tables, a few heads turned and several gave the men dark looks before turning back to their drinks, muttering to themselves. A blast of cold air went through the entire pub, and the glasses on the counter rattled as the door banged shut behind the group.

_ I love my job _ . Through gritted teeth Josiah stepped forwards, baring his teeth in what was meant to be a smile. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Number 3 looked at Number 4 who stared back, glassy-eyed, then both Numbers 2 and 3 cracked a grin and soon all 5 were giggling madly, occasionally grinning up at Josiah like they were all in on a private joke. Josiah turned away for a second to put some glasses away - that, and clear the dull pain that was already throbbing in his temple - and turned back to see they had made it to the counter. Two of them were crammed onto one stool, one of them was seemingly asleep or passed out already, and one of them was sitting on the counter until Josiah - none too gently - shoved him off again. All of them surrounded the redhead, who gave them one look and buried his head in his arms again.

Though one of them had finally settled down enough to get his attention they didn’t seem to be in any rush to order anything, and Josiah waited with a forced patience for them to speak up. The next five minutes were spent pacing, as much as he could in the cramped space, angrily negotiating with the men for what they wanted, trying to hurry them up, calm himself down and for God’s sake get them to stop their infernal giggling. By the time the last of them had slurred out something coherent he was red with muted fury and his teeth had practically been ground into stubs. Their laughter kept boiling away at him as he poured out the alcohol into mugs, narrowly avoiding slamming them on the counter: glassware was expensive, and it was one more way he didn’t need this evening ruined.

“There,” he snapped, catching himself just in time and forcing his voice into a marginally more polite tone. This type of thing shouldn’t get to him like this, but it had been a stressful night. “Your drinks…” he forced his face into the contours of a smile, “ _ gentlemen.” _

He turned away for a moment, trying to clear his head. Don’t let them ruin whatever scraps of this miserable evening you’re still clinging to. At least three times a week he had to deal with groups like these. It shouldn’t be affecting him like this. Inhale, exhale. Close your eyes, step away as much as you can. Shake out your arms. Turn back, open your eyes, smile.

Number 3 took a mouthful and spluttered it back out again all over the counter. “This stuff is  _ awful. _ ” 

Josiah inhaled sharply.

A low chuckle. “Awful,” agreed number 1.

“Filthy.”

“Bloody terrible.”

“Mate -” Josiah took a deep breath in, barely holding himself together. “You’d better -”

Another wave of jeering.

“Horrible.”

“Nasty.”

The  _ screech _ of stools across the dirty floor. The clinking of one, two, three glasses on the counter. The stink of pipe smoke and stale beer and hundreds of unwashed bodies and always the horrible laughter across the room and his head was about to explode -

“Another round, guv’nor?” The redhead looked up at him with a crooked grin. 

Josiah started, forcing back the retort that sprung to his lips. “Looks like you’ve had quite enough already, friend.”

The grin faded away and the freckled jaw set, looking around with a hostile stare at the men crowding him. “‘Scuse me?”

Number 5 snorted, shooting a suggestive glance in the redhead’s direction.

Josiah lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Had a bit much already, haven’t you?”

A pair of bolting blue eyes flew up to meet his, and Josiah was taken aback by the rage in them. He stared back, stubbornly. Numbers 2 and 4 snickered.

“Listen, man,” the redhead hissed, a strong smell of whiskey on his breath. “You don’t understand -”

“No.” It had been a long evening and Josiah just wanted it all over with, but he had his limits. “Sir. You can’t - ”

“Can’t I?” 

Josiah shook his head firmly, arms folded.

The man stood up abruptly, slamming his hands on the counter. “You -” There was mania in his eyes, red-rimmed and unfocused.

Josiah reached out and grasped the hysterical man by the shoulder. It was really going to be a long night. “Calm down, now, man, it’s only a drink…”

The redhead gave a choked sob that stank of alcohol and crumpled again, still shaking his head. Josiah knew the man’s routine - this sort of thing happened at least once a week. It was better not to intervene. 

Apparently the drunken group still surrounding the redhead, despite Josiah’s best efforts to get them up and out of his pub, didn’t know that. Number 4 leaned over and poked his shaking shoulder, grinning in a mock-sympathetic sort of way. “Hard luck, eh, Chief?”

The man’s head shot up so fast Josiah had to jump back, blue fire sparking in his eyes. 

“What. Did. You. Call. Me.” His freckled face had gone pale, his entire body trembling.

“Chief?” Number 4 cocked his head, frowning. 

The redhead recoiled violently at the sound of the name. “How dare you- ” It was a low snarl, almost animal in nature.

The others seemed to have picked up on his discomfort and thought it a fine game to play. “What’d ya say,  _ Chief _ ? Didn’t hear you right the first time.”

“Ya need anything, Chief?”

Again the redhead was on his feet, this time facing the men instead of the bar. “Don’t you dare -”

Number 1 snickered. “Some war paint, mebbe?”

“Spears?”

“A tent!”

The redhead watched them furiously, his eyes ablaze and a vein throbbing in his forehead. On his feet he was tall but scrawny, no older than 25, and every muscle in his body was taught. He held still but gave the impression that he could snap at any moment, and Josiah didn’t want to be there when he did. 

“You - you don’t understand. You don’t understand...  _ anything _ .” His speech was slurring, and he was swaying slightly on his feet. Josiah gave him twenty minutes to pass out, tops, if he kept on like this.

“Want us to lead a chant,  _ Chief _ ?” Number 3 started pounding a steady rhythm on the counter, and his buddies joined in, picking up the throb and clink of the rattling counter. The redhead jumped again, staring disbelievingly at them all, and his breaths came heavy and fast like a bull’s.

He grew paler still as Number 2 started chanting. Nothing coherent, just random syllables, but the others caught on quickly and thought it delightful fun to watch the redhead as they did. Soon the pub was full of drunken whoops and slightly offbeat stomping, a single pulse rattling the floorboards. 

“Whattsamatter,  _ Chief _ ,” Number 5 drawled, noticing the redhead’s stance and the look in his eyes, “not good enough for an almighty -”

Before he could finish his sentence, there was a roar and a blur of motion as the redhead shot up. A freckled fist caught the side of his jaw, knocking him back and sending him stumbling against the counter.

“Eyy,” Number 1 growled, “whass going on -”

Another yell and Number 1 was slumped over the table, groaning and holding his cheek. Instantly Numbers 2 and 3 were on their feet. The redhead was holding his fist, breathing heavily.

“Don’t - ever -” he fought his way forwards, lunging for Number 2 “- call - me- that - again- ” He shook off Number 1, throwing another punch in his direction. “Don’t you dare - and if you -” An unpleasant crunch and a howl of pain, Josiah couldn’t make out the source from the tangle of bodies. “Do you understand?”

Number 2 dove for him and soon the whole gang was on him, shoving him against the counter and attacking with no holds barred. Within seconds, security was there. 

A blur of fists and wrangling arms and soon all five of them were pulled back from the redhead, whose nose was bleeding. The entire pub was watching by now, stunned into silence.

The redhead wrenched himself loose from the guard holding him. “Never - don’t you even  _ think _ of calling me that again.” He whirled to face the rest of the crowd. “ _ You understand?” _

There were a few annoyed grunts of assent. The redhead grabbed for his whiskey bottle and threw a few coins on the counter. “I  _ mean  _ it.” He shook the guard away and stalked off, slamming the door behind him. 

There were a few seconds of silence as the rest of the pub stared after him.

“Man, what’s his problem?” Number 4 muttered, holding his cheek.

“ - dunno…” Number 5 groaned, still pushing himself up from the ground.

Josiah broke the resulting silence, clearing his throat. “Darryl - can you take over?” He stumped away from the crowded space, pulling his coat on.

The second bartender looked at him questioningly. “Josiah -”

“I’ve had enough,” Josiah muttered. “It’s been too much.” He got up and made his way out the back door. “It’s been a long night, Darryl. I’m going home.”


End file.
